


This Is How It Goes

by disorient_me



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Prompt Fill, Winter Classic 2012
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-15
Updated: 2012-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-14 07:47:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disorient_me/pseuds/disorient_me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This is how it starts: with a simple hand on his shoulder, the weight of that touch burning through his jersey and shoulder pads, which is a little strange. "  Brayden Schenn posts his first goal during the 2012 Winter Classic--and gets a little more besides.  </p>
<p>Originally written as a fill for the Anon meme on LJ.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Is How It Goes

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written as a fill for the hockey anon meme on LJ. Prompt was, "Claude and Brayden celebrate Brayden's first NHL goal during the Winter Classic. By doing it. Also in some ways mourning the loss of the WC as well. They live together. They go everywhere together. They are asking for this I swear."
> 
> Posted back in February, but I thought I'd share here. Hope you enjoy; standard disclaimers apply. Feedback is loved and adored.

This is how it starts: with a simple hand on his shoulder, the weight of that touch burning through his jersey and shoulder pads, which is a little strange.  None of the slaps and punches and touches of congratulations feel quite like that, just that one touch, still warm through his gear like he’d been touched on his bare skin.  It’s weird, but Brayden ignores it, lost in the sweep of exhilaration-relief-excitement-sheer _adrenaline_ that is rushing through his veins at the moment.  Claude is grinning wide, shouting something after him as he passes down the bench, bumping fists with the other guys, something that Brayden can’t quite make out, but he guesses he knows the sentiment behind it.

 

Just seconds before, he had finally broken through whatever had been holding him back, and he has his first NHL goal—in front of over 45,000 people at the _Winter Classic_  no less.  It’s such a fucking rush, and he just _knew_ that today would be the day, and it’s something he’s never going to forget.  This is the beginning, the beginning of what he is sure he’s going to accomplish, and it’s perfect, being outside with so many people, the very air vibrating, and Brayden grins brightly.

 

It continues with the hand on the back of his shoulder, bleeding tired warmth and weary strength through the thin fabric of his shirt when he hangs his jacket up on the hook beside the door.  His touch lingers as they enter the apartment, and Brayden thinks it’s a little weird, but he’s still high enough off of the high of his goal (dampened by the loss though it may be) that it’s nice, and he leans in, just a little.  Claude just dumps his jacket in a heap on the floor, leaving it behind him as he carefully presses past Brayden, heading into the kitchen.  Brayden shakes his head, snorting.  G is a good roommate, but sometimes, he can see where Brière might not have had such a lasting impact on him—Claude sure likes to leave his jackets and shirts and shoes everywhere.

 

He isn’t really surprised when Claude appears behind him, leaning over the back of the couch and pressing a beer into his hands.  Brayden cracks it open, lifting it over his head to accept the toast from G over the back of the couch.  The awkward angle makes him grin, even as G rounds the couch and drops down beside him. 

 

“To your first goal—fuckin’ _finally_ ,” G drawls, smirking as Brayden makes a face at him.  It wasn’t like he hadn’t been trying to get his first point, for crying out loud, but… there’s always something sharper about G after games, particularly after hard losses, and today definitely counts.  Brayden just guesses it’s the fading adrenaline and part of the person G strives to be on the ice—hard, focuses, unbeatable—carrying over, but sometimes, it’s a little much.

 

“The first of many,” Brayden finally allows, cracking open the bottle and flicking the cap at Giroux before taking a sip.  It’s not his first drink, and won’t be his last, but he knows his limits, and isn’t about to test them, especially not with what is sure to be a hard practice ahead.  Their breakdown in the third period earlier had been unacceptable, pretty much erasing most of the exhilaration of his goal and burying it underneath a healthy layer of embarrassment.

 

At the edge of his awareness, Brayden can feel G watching him, so he takes another drink before turning to raise a brow at his roommate.  Claude just curls the corner of his mouth in response, and then Brayden rolls his eyes.  For a while, neither of them speaks; there’s really nothing to say, and the similar lack of anything on TV seems to compound this.  The way that Claude is watching him, however, is enough to make his awareness ripple, on edge at the sharpness that’s still emanating from G.

 

It’s not really a surprise when Claude finally reaches forward, setting the rest of his beer on the coffee table, shoving aside a stack of magazines impatiently to clear some room.  His knee jostles into Brayden’s, and Schenn knees him back, prompting Claude to shove at him.  One thing leads to another, and somehow Brayden’s drink ends up spilled on the floor as they grapple, good-natured tussling leading to rough-housing, and Brayden still isn’t surprised when the rough-housing leads into full-out wrestling.

 

It’s in the way that frustration radiates from Claude’s hands-arms-legs-body against Brayden’s, and Brayden growls.  G has him pinned a little easier than he’d like to admit, but let’s be honest, it’s been a while since Brayden wrestled with Luke or anyone like this, and G spent all of last season with the Brières, but he hopes to God that this isn’t how those wrestling matches ended up—Claude’s mouth is pressed impatiently against his, his hips grinding slightly against Brayden’s thigh, and all the fight leaves Brayden quickly in favor of something else that sweeps through him like fire, like exhilaration, like that feeling of ~~finally~~ netting his first goal all over again.

 

G’s tongue sweeps into his mouth like he owns the place, mapping out Schenner’s mouth and drawing a groan out of him.  He arches into the touches of G’s hands, more than willing to roll with this—he has questions, but right now, those can wait, because frustration and urgency are building in the pit of his stomach as well.

 

This is how it goes: Claude’s hands are rough and insistent and yet careful as he gets rid of Brayden’s slacks and boxers.  The rookie’s hands are a little more uncoordinated as he yanks at Claude’s shirt, wanting—needing—to see and feel skin.  Claude stops his assault of Brayden’s mouth as he pauses, helping to get rid of the shirt without ruining it, tugging it over his head and tossing it over his shoulders.  From there, it becomes a contest to see who can get rid of their clothing the fastest, and Brayden is pretty sure he’s the one who wins when G gets rid of it first—it’s hard to strip himself when pinned down like this, but he’ll take the view of his roommate as a prize anyway, because who _wouldn’t_ consider seeing that toned, perfect body as a reward?  Obviously, he’s done something right today.

 

“Have to try harder,” Claude says, somewhat randomly, and then Brayden growls impatiently, yanking Claude down into a rough, demanding kiss.  It’s an interesting duality: on one hand, he understands what Claude’s talking about, because it always sucks to lose, especially such a huge game that they’d been anticipating for such a long time.  On the other hand, however, he’d gotten a goal, which wasn’t _enough_ but it was _something_ , and all this thinking is distracting him.

 

Claude’s understanding is in the way he doesn’t say anything else, instead shoving a hand between them.  It feels wonderful on Brayden’s dick, strong, hot and callused in all the right ways, and it’s not his own, and anyone with any sense whatsoever will tell you that Claude Giroux possesses fucking masterful, _magical_ hands—Brayden is just getting to experience that firsthand.

 

It isn’t pretty, but he doesn’t care as Claude jerks him off.  G makes a surprised noise into his mouth when Brayden reaches up to touch him, and it isn’t long before Claude is removing his hand, much to Schenner’s disappointment.  G just smirks, however, eyes alight with that devious glint as he nips and sucks his way over the younger forward’s throat, across his chest, stomach, then Brayden’s world stops when Giroux takes his dick into his mouth, teasingly slowly, just to make sure Brayden remembers who is in control here.

 

Claude’s mouth is every bit as talented as his hands, his sharp tongue and wicked smirk fraying what little portion of Brayden’s mind might have been intact, and his clumsy attempt to warn G is ignored as he breaks apart.  The sight of G’s head bobbing is enough to make the edges of his vision go white, and Brayden might actually make a very embarrassing noise, but he will never confirm that.

 

Instead, this is how it ends: with Brayden insistently tugging Claude up, getting a funny twinge in the pit of stomach when he sees Claude licking his lips several times.  It’s a little weird tasting himself in G’s mouth, but he works a hand between them, taking a couple attempts to figure out what G likes before doing his best to blow his mind.  He’s a little disappointed that he can’t do better, but from the way Claude is bucking into his hand and gasping out broken French, he guesses it’s good enough—fast and a little rough, a little demanding, but good enough.  Claude doesn’t last long before coming between them, creating a hot, sticky mess as he groans.

 

It’s not perfect—Brayden’s back kind of hurts from his position on the floor, Claude’s kind of heavy and sweaty and gross, and the carpet is definitely going to need to be cleaned (neither beer nor come can be good for it, right?)—but it’s a definite feeling of relief, of relaxation as Claude tips to the side, coming to rest beside him.  Above them, the TV is still playing, and the outside of Claude’s beer is starting to glaze with condensation, and all Brayden can do is stare at the ceiling and try to catch his breath.

 

Tomorrow, they’re going to have to get their shit together; they fucked up earlier, dropped the ball, shit the bed, didn’t show up for the whole sixty minutes, you pick the metaphor.  Tomorrow, they’re going to have to face the press, the fans, the coaches, the reality of how they screwed up, but for tonight, suddenly, none of that is quite as pressing.  Yes, they lost, but… maybe Brayden started something new here.  He’s got his first goal, and he’s helped make that sharp edge disappear from Claude’s eyes, so… this can all be fixed, and they’ll move on from this.  They have to; this is how it goes.


End file.
